


musical chairs

by steponthegaslys



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Miscommunication, Negative Thoughts, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, alex albon's 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steponthegaslys/pseuds/steponthegaslys
Summary: 2020 had been meant to be Alex Albon's year.
Relationships: Alexander Albon & Pierre Gasly
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	musical chairs

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo basically i used a random number generator to pick a pairing and a prompt from a list
> 
> alex + pierre + "everyone thinks i should stay away from you because you’re dangerous"

2020 was meant to be his year.

It was meant to be podiums, maybe even a pole, maybe, with enough luck, even a win.

He’d been told at the end of 2019 that the second Red Bull seat was his - he’d successfully held off Pierre, he’d proved himself, they were going to back him solidly since he’d shown he was _actually_ good enough to drive in the same car as Max.

And then the season had actually begun, after a long break during which he’d let himself get focused on everything else but driving, and he’d crashed out at the end of Austria, the podium that was just within his reach being ripped away.

Things had just gone downhill from there. There’d been a 4th for Styria, well on target, but then his results had trended down - fifth. Sixth. Eighth.

Fifteenth, as he stared up at Pierre Gasly on the top podium step at Monza, further fuelling the fire that it should be him in the Red Bull second seat. The first french race winner since Panis, since the year he was born - in a junior team seat, while the man in his previous seat continued to disappoint.

He’d thought Pierre had just crumbled without reason in the Red Bull second seat last year. Now he thought he probably had a point - the media were turning on _him_ now, his gap to Max being brought up in every single race analysis, and speculation about whether he’d be even be allowed to drive in 2021 followed him around like moths to a flame.

“You know,” said Max to him one friday, after a dismal qualifying where he just couldn’t get control of the car and had gone out in Q2, “Pierre would probably have some advice.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’d go down well. Teach me how to not let you steal my seat,” said Alex.

“Yeah. Don’t phrase it like that. He’s not got any advice on not having a seat taken.”

Things got better the next week, and when he stood on the podium at Mugello, it felt like he’d finally taken back control. He’d achieved the goal that Red Bull had set him - to get on the podium if and when Max couldn’t for some reason - and surely that would put an end to the speculation right? 

Then he came tenth in Russia, right behind Daniil and Pierre. He himself had mocked the fact Pierre had been fighting the midfield cars in the RB, but when he was fighting George for any position but last, he’d felt a sick feeling in his stomach.

He'd done everything to try and hold off Pierre (the slight side sweep to keep him off at the corner had got no penalty points, and even an approving nod from Horner that they’d pretend hadn’t happened if asked) but he’d got past him. Fresher tyres, Horner had reassured him at the end of the race. Then he’d gone straight over to watch Max on the second step of the podium, leaving him alone.

It came to a head in Germany. It had been 23 laps of pure pain - an early pit stop as his tyres went off, and then he’d heard a crunch as he’d taken the racing line from Daniil, and then Pierre had just been _there_ as he’d rounded 15, in his way.

“They race me so hard!”

He’d regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. The radio had gone dead quiet, and the next thing that was said was that they were retiring the car. He couldn’t see a reason - he’d not been losing any power, things didn’t seem to be getting hotter, the brakes were working fine, and then the next radio had confirmed his suspicions.

“Car problem. We’ll tell you when you’re back.”

As he pulled into the pit lane, his mechanics weren’t even looking at him. Marko was glowering at him as he got out of the car, and Simon’s mouth was set in a firm line. There wasn’t any movement towards the car, nobody trying to figure out exactly what had gone wrong with it. 

He felt sick. Was he going to be sacked mid race? Was a stupid comment going to be the end of it for him?

It wasn’t quite as bad as that in the end - he’d had a long dressing down from Marko, then been turfed out to the reporters where he’d just about held it together, as screens had shown that Pierre had cruised past Leclerc to steal a 6th to Max’s 2nd. Horner had said it was the radiator that had gone, a part nobody but the team would be able to see, and he’d felt even more sick. They’d retired him because of the embarrassment, hadn’t they?

Those five words had haunted him for the next two weeks. People had taken something he’d said in the heat of the moment and were eager to use them to try and nail the coffin shut on his F1 career. Every comment on his social media had mentioned it in some way - he’d asked Lily to change his password again, make it so he couldn’t get into his own accounts. Seeing the mockery wouldn’t help.

An emergency meeting had been called before Portugal, and he’d never felt as nervous as he had on the plane to Salzburg. This was the end for him, wasn’t it? The rumours about Pierre to Renault had provided some reprieve for a few days, but they’d immediately been followed by rumours about Perez and Hulkenberg, and there’d been an interview where Marko had even confirmed he’d be willing to look outside the academy to fill his seat.

The last time he’d been to Salzburg, he’d been welcomed warmly. Now, people were averting their eyes, like they knew exactly what news he was going to be walking into. Like he was something to be pitied.

He supposed that if this was the end of his F1 career, then he was.

Maybe it'd be a blessing. Maybe he wasn’t meant for it - maybe he’d have a much better time in Formula E, or WEC, or maybe it was time for him to finish driving altogether. Maybe he’d have to say goodbye to Monaco, instead setting up in Kent or Surrey or somewhere else boring and green in the south east of England.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

It certainly felt really fucking bad when he was joined in the hallway outside the meeting room by Daniil. In a way he felt almost jealous of Daniil - everyone knew he was a dead man walking when it came to F1, but at least he _knew_. He seemed calm, all the mindless trying to impress had ceased now, there was no worry about who might feel offended by a few words, or whether that particular person was the one that would be his downfall.

Where Alex felt like he was on a treadmill that was speeding up too quickly under his feet, just waiting until he’d be thrown off, trying desperately to please the person ramping up the speed faster than he could cope with. The speculation on him was endless - was he even good enough to get an Alpha Tauri seat? Pierre was first choice for the one they wouldn’t be putting a fresh junior in, ready to see if they were the next Max.

“What are you staring at?” asked Daniil, raising an eyebrow. His voice wasn’t unkind, not in the slightest, more concerned if anything. “Thinking too hard?”

Alex didn’t know if it was a joke about the racing too hard thing, or just a lighthearted comment, but he could still feel embarrassment burn up inside him as Max came to join them.

Why couldn’t he be like Max? Get put into a top team and immediately be good enough, get a win his first race there, be a generational fucking talent that the whole sport was ready to build itself around?

“Pierre’s late as usual then?” asked Max, rolling his eyes.

“Of course he is,” said Daniil, sighing and leaning back to do something on his phone. “He’s not trying to keep Helmut sweet anymore, is he?” he hummed, as Max laughed.

His seat had already been given back to Pierre then, hadn’t it? God, he hoped they at least let him finish out the season. Whether it was in a Red Bull or an Alpha Tauri.

It was another ten minutes before Pierre made his way in - seemingly accounted for by Marko, since they _still_ hadn’t actually been called into the meeting room (only adding fuel to the fire in Alex’s brain that his seat was as good as Pierre’s, since there was no other reason Marko would let his emphasis on punctuality slip) -nodding a greeting to them all before immersing himself back into whatever was on his phone.

As Alex looked over Pierre, he noted the complete absence of Alpha Tauri banded clothes, which had almost become part of the frenchman’s daily uniform, just as much as Max’s Red Bull shirts had over the years. Another sign then - no point in him advertising Alpha Tauri when he was going to be in a Red Bull seat. He’d obviously been somewhere, his hair styled and perfectly tight jeans hugging his legs, and Marko knew his schedule from the looks of things, so it wasn’t that it was just a day off.

They were called in soon after Pierre’s arrival, the other three looking much less bothered than Alex felt. They didn’t look like their hearts were beating out of their chest, or like their mouth had gone bone dry, or like their breakfast was threatening to make a reappearance.

The initial discussions were boring - about merchandising, and discussions about the plan now Honda had announced their departure (and maybe, hoped Alex, that kept a seat free, if Yuki’s Honda backing could no longer secure him a seat), and there was a ten minute break where they were giving caps to sign, none of them speaking.

And then the familiar sight of the Nurburgring was brought up on the screen at the head of the table, and Alex could feel his stomach churn.

Of course they were going to discuss it.

He could see a smile playing around the edges of Max’s lips, and the younger man sunk back into his seat, clearly ready to enjoy the spectacle that this would cause. Max Verstappen had no cause to be worried about a playback of Eifel, after all, _especially_ not one where there was an Alpha Tauri in front of the car who’s camera was being shown.

Shit.

“So, Alexander,” said Marko, voice snippy as they played the footage. “Care to explain this?”

“I was taking back the racing line,” said Alex, and he could instantly see that the answer had been wrong, one that Marko didn’t care for at all, as the lines on his brow grew deeper.

“Taking it back less than a cars length in front. After I’d lifted to let you past,” said Daniil cooly. “And taking my front wing with you.”

“It was a mistake, alright?” sighed Alex.

“Then we have corner 15,” said Marko, forwarding the video. Alex could have sworn Pierre was in his way when he’d been in the moment - but sickeningly, it was clear he’d outbraked himself watching the footage back. “Why are you giving him that inside line, Pierre?”

“Because if I hadn’t, he’d have slammed into the side of me,” said Pierre, pointing to the angle, and _shit_ , yeah, maybe he would have.

“You couldn’t have known that though,” said Alex, because this was his chance, Pierre was the focus of negative attention from Marko right now, maybe that seat was still within grazing distance of his fingertips - maybe he’d done nothing wrong?

“I knew you were coming up behind. And I know that my engineer was in my ear telling me that you were being dangerous,” said Pierre, blue eyes piercing as he glared at him. “He said to stay away from you. He was right, wasn’t he? You’d have ended us both in a double DNF if I hadn’t.”

Alex could hear a snort from next to him, Max clearly taking enjoying himself as he watched the argument unfolding in front of him, eyes darting between both sides of the table, and a smile widening on his face. Alex could feel his cheeks heating up in embarrassment.

“Maybe it’s Germany. You did worse to me last year,” said Alex, his words clipped with anger.

“And yet you didn’t hear me on the radio complaining about being raced too hard then,” said Pierre, leaning back and shrugging. “That was just plain fucking embarrassing.”

Alex saw red. Before he’d even realised he’d done it, he’d stormed out of the room, and out of the exit of Red Bull HQ. Marko would have his balls for it - if he stayed employed by Marko anyway, which he had a feeling he wouldn’t. Maybe Nissan e.dams would have him again, if he started reaching out to them now, or somewhere else.

Fuck, he hadn’t even kept up with the Formula E teams since he’d been told he’d be going to F1 instead. What even _were_ the other teams?

Reality started to set in as he made way to his hotel room. What the _fuck_ had he just done? He’d let a little spat with Pierre lose him his job then, hadn’t he?

Fuck, Max never would have had to deal with this. Never would have had to deal with Pierre and Daniil being ahead of him, with their lips turning up at the edges because of a stupid adrenaline fuelled comment, with being embarrassed by the junior team in a meeting in front of the man who controlled all four of their careers.

Max would never have to.

It was a few hours later when a knock came on his door. Nobody else had texted, or called, or tried to figure out where he’d gone (another sign he was back on Red Bull’s scrapheap, he supposed, why try and find someone you weren't even going to keep?), so he’d been lay wallowing when it had come.

He hadn’t expected to see Pierre Gasly on the other side when he’d opened it.

The man who was going to take his seat. The man who was soaring while he sank. The man who was driving absolutely fucking mad.

“So are you not going to let me in?” asked Pierre, quirking an eyebrow as he looked at him, and Alex moved aside wordlessly. He’d basically done the same thing for him by running out of that meeting anyway, hadn’t he? May as well do it here.

“You’re cracking up,” Pierre told him, sitting down on his bed without a care in the world. “You’re doing what they want you to do, you know?”

“Am I now?” asked Alex, narrowing his eyebrows.

“Yeah. They’ve fucked up plenty of things with that second seat, and they don’t know how to fix them. I mean you got the new engineer, but,” said Pierre, rolling his eyes before continuing, “anyway, now it’s time to make it about the driver. Not about Red Bull. It’ll be ‘mental issues’ from Marko before you know it.”

“It was the driver with you though,” said Alex. “You were slow as shit in that car.”

“And now you’re crying over being raced by Alpha Tauris,” said Pierre. “I was slow in the Red Bull. Now I’m beating your Red Bull in a worse car. Wonder who that reflects on.”

“Did you come here to piss me off?” asked Alex, glaring at him.

“I came to give advice, but maybe you’re not in a place to take it,” shrugged Pierre. “Your loss.”

“Give me advice on how to accept being demoted when you take my seat?” asked Alex. “Nice.”

Pierre gave a hollow laugh then, one that Alex wasn’t sure the meaning of. “That’s what you think is happening then.”

“Pretty sure that’s what everyone thinks,” said Alex. “Is that not what you all talked about when I left then?”

Pierre just laughed again, before getting up. “Ask Max. I’m going to leave you with that thought. There’s no way to get you to listen when that’s what’s in your head.”

The gentle click of the door shutting behind Pierre as he left echoed in Alex’s ears.

Another opportunity lost.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm over on tumblr as @pierregasiy if you want to chat :)


End file.
